


Thy Cocoa Doth Grow Cold

by bastet_in_april



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fluff, M/M, Other, OurSideYule, OurSideYule prompts, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), William Blake references, cocoa, except research done for another fic entirely, for no reason in particular, holiday fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:28:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28041675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bastet_in_april/pseuds/bastet_in_april
Summary: As cute as Aziraphale’s look of mortal offense at the taste of congealed cocoa was, the angel clearly needed rescuing from himself.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 42
Collections: Fluffy Stuff, Make the Yuletide Gay 2020





	Thy Cocoa Doth Grow Cold

**Author's Note:**

> This bit of irredeemably soft fluff was written for the OurSideYule prompt: "Thy cocoa doth grow cold."

It had started even before the bookshop. Even before Aziraphale had settled into one space—into a home—he had still lost himself so entirely in an engrossing book, or scroll, or clay tablet, that he disregarded anything else around him. Dishes of flatbread went stale, generously sliced cheeses began to mold, tea went lukewarm and then cold. Aziraphale never noticed, until, hours or days later, he absently took a bite or a sip, grimaced, and then put the offending item back. Some time later, having forgotten the state of the food or drink, still engrossed in reading, Aziraphale would sample it again, and the process would repeat itself. Thankfully, the angel was no more at risk of contracting food poisoning than he was of catching a virus. 

Once Aziraphale had opened his shop, and had a pantry in which to store food and a cramped little kitchen for preparing it, the phenomenon only increased in frequency. Aziraphale’s enjoyment and focus towards culinary delights could only be surpassed by his books, and when he was surrounded by a collection of all his favorite volumes… Well. Crowley had a lot of opportunities to watch in horrified anticipation as Aziraphale lifted a mug of slightly fuzzy cocoa to his lips.

After they moved into the cottage together, mugs and plates collected in all the spots Aziraphale settled into to read: the bookshelf next to the window seat upstairs had a saucer with half of a tooth-breakingly stale shortbread biscuit, the wicker chair in the conservatory had a ring of mugs that had sprung up around it like mushrooms after a rainshower, and the staircase banister had a single half-peeled withered orange perched on it.

As cute as Aziraphale’s look of mortal offense at the taste of congealed cocoa was, the angel clearly needed rescuing from himself. 

Pointed reminders about the state of whatever food or drink had been abandoned in favor of a book only elicited a distracted hum. Only long-dead witches speaking to Aziraphale in prophecy could get Aziraphale's attention to waver from his reading long enough to rescue his cocoa. (And that was only because it had _been_ what he’d been reading). Trying to make himself distracting enough to draw Aziraphale’s focus from his book proved to be immensely fun, but it hadn’t exactly saved the ignored drinks and foodstuff from abandonment. In fact, it had caused Crowley to forget them entirely, as well. So, another idea was needed. 

***

It took Aziraphale some time to notice what was happening. He wasn’t entirely sure _how much_ time, given that he had been happily absorbed in a collection of first edition William Blake manuscripts that he had found at an estate sale. He’d been marveling over the vividly imaginative print illustrations that accompanied the poetry, when he took a sip from the mug beside him, humming happily to himself at the taste of the hot chocolate. Some time later, he noticed that it was dark outside, and turned his desk lamp on. Aziraphale had a vague memory of having greeted Crowley when he had come inside from the garden, the demon snapping away any dirt that dared to cling to his dark clothing and looking immensely pleased with himself (he'd been terrorizing the lawn again, Aziraphale suspected). Shortly after that, Aziraphale had opened one of Blake’s books of prophecy, and time had slipped away from him.

Aziraphale sighed and closed the book reluctantly. He supposed he really ought to go upstairs. He could always return to the book in the morning. Aziraphale picked up the winged mug and swallowed the last of his cocoa, letting it warm him. It tasted faintly of bourbon, and he smacked his lips appreciatively. He didn’t remember having thought to add it to the cocoa when he had prepared it, but he was very pleased with the result.

Aziraphale put the mug into the sink and climbed the stairs, slipping into bed beside Crowley, who made a faint grumbling noise in his sleep and pressed his nose into Aziraphale’s shoulder.

The next morning, after breakfast and a pot of tea had been consumed, Aziraphale made himself a mug of cocoa and opened up the Blake manuscript with a frisson of excitement. He promptly lost himself in the words for several hours. Some time around noon, he roused himself enough to take a sip of cocoa, chewing and swallowing a pillowy marshmallow.

Aziraphale put aside the book and picked up _The Marriage of Heaven and Hell,_ smiling at the figures on the frontispiece of the book who were clasping one another closely, reaching out from fire and tumultuous stormcloud to embrace one another, in defiance of their respective elements. It must have been several hours later when Aziraphale picked up the gently steaming mug again. As Aziraphale drank from it, the frothy whipped cream left a smudge on his lip, which he absently licked off. He silently commended his past self for having thought to add the cream to the drink, and returned his attention to the section including Blake’s proverbs of Hell, which put Aziraphale in mind of the style of motivational posters Gabriel liked to decorate his office with.

When he finally closed the book, Aziraphale took another sip of cocoa. The stick of cinnamon resting in the cup bumped him in the nose. Aziraphale frowned, even as he appreciated the taste of the spice marrying with the chocolate. He didn’t recall adding cinnamon to the drink. In fact, Aziraphale wasn’t even certain that there were any cinnamon sticks in the cottage’s kitchen; he usually just used the jar of ground spice.

The mug was very warm between Aziraphale’s palms. He stared at the steam rising in a fragrant chocolatey cloud. It had been at least ten hours since Aziraphale had made the drink that morning.

This required further investigation. 

The next day, Aziraphale settled into the window seat, where he could watch Crowley in the garden while he read. He had regretfully set Blake aside, picking up a text that was a long-standing part of his collection, not a favorite but an old friend. Aziraphale was trying not to entirely lose himself in his reading today; he was investigating a mystery. The mug of cocoa was perched on the windowsill beside him, warm and fragrant with the scent of chocolate.

Two chapters later, Aziraphale took a sip of warm chocolate, stirring the drink with a peppermint candy cane that had definitely not been in the mug when he had made the drink. It was a very pleasant addition, Aziraphale reflected, watching Crowley take his ire out on the rhododendrons. He smiled to himself and propped the book up as though he were reading it, waiting watchfully with his eyes trained on the garden outside. Thirty minutes later, Crowley dropped his trowel, and raised his hand to snap. Aziraphale took another sip of his cocoa, now decorated with golden sprinkles and just as warm as it had been when he had made it. His mouth quirked up irrepressibly at the corners. He felt warmed by more than just the hot drink. 

“You wily old serpent,” Aziraphale whispered. 

It was quite a cold day outside, Aziraphale reflected. Not that anyone would have known it from the verdant green of the garden. Crowley didn’t accept winter as an excuse for bare branches. Crowley had his scarf bundled on, but he was probably feeling the chill of the cold air. Aziraphale knew an excellent remedy for that. 

Ten minutes later, Aziraphale stepped out into the garden with a mug of hot cocoa in each hand. Crowley looked up from where he had been inspecting one of the hedges, and took the mug that the angel deposited in his hands, blinking at it. Aziraphale pulled him over to the bench, settling them both down onto it and pressing warmly against Crowley’s side. Aziraphale took an appreciative sip from his own mug, closing his eyes for a moment in bliss.

“You had better drink that,” Aziraphale said, indicating the mug that Crowley was ignoring in favor of watching the angel. He pressed a kiss against Crowley’s cheek. “It’s getting cold.”


End file.
